


The Effect of Butterflies

by evilgiraff



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 20:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1830433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilgiraff/pseuds/evilgiraff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Auror Potter finds himself investigating a murder that bears a striking resemblance to that in a popular novel, who better to help him with his enquiries than the author of said novel? Of course, said author being Draco Malfoy makes life a little more interesting...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Effect of Butterflies

**Author's Note:**

> This submission is part of HD Smoochfest on Livejournal. The theme this year is Media Remix, which invited participants to "remix" the story from a Book, Movie, or Television Show. The author/artist will be revealed at the end of the fest.
> 
> This was created for Prompt Number: T71  
> Original Work Name: Castle
> 
> Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> Author's Notes: As much as I love both H/D and Castle, it has been more work than I envisaged to get them to work together. Therefore, I owe my darling beta, O, even more thanks than usual – it really (REALLY) would not have been the same without her help. And finally, I think a special mention should go to Nathan Fillion's roguish grin. Because I'm a sucker for a nice smile and twinkly eyes :-)

It may only have been Thursday night, but it had already been a long week for Harry, full of irritating suspects, unobservant witnesses, and interminable paperwork.  He pushed wearily through his front door, shrugged off his battered leather jacket, kicked his shoes into a corner, and staggered into the kitchen.  Half an hour later, his belly full but quietly protesting against the stodgy mass of barely-reheated pasta he'd inflicted on it, Harry sagged into his bed and was asleep within minutes.

 

The thin light of dawn had hardly crept into the room when the stronger, more insistent glow of the fireplace, along with Neville's too-cheery voice woke him.  He groaned, levered himself half out of bed, and answered the call upside-down with his legs still tangled in the sheets.

 

“Alright, alright, I'm here, what's the big emergency?”  He coughed, trying to sound more like a professional Auror and less like a student the morning after far too much to drink.

 

“Morning, Harry,” Neville replied, grinning up at him.  “We've got a murder – looks like the victim died last night, so it's fresh off the press, so to speak.”

 

“Why's it our problem?  Isn't it someone else's turn on the late-night homicides by now?” Harry grumbled, rubbing at his eyes.

 

“Robards thought you'd like it.  It's a little... different to the usual.”

 

**:::::**

 

When Harry, Ron and Neville had first joined the Auror department, they had all been rather taken aback by how Robards ran it.  Far from the exclusive dark-wizard chasing of the past, the Aurors had become more of a general crime-fighting organisation, working on cases that were often complex and distressing, but rarely involved the Dark Arts.  As a result, the number of Aurors had vastly increased, and practices had changed significantly after extensive collaboration with the Muggle police service.  Now, instead of relying solely on magical methods, Aurors were encouraged to use Muggle methods of interrogation and detective work, and an entirely new sub-division of specialist science-based Aurors had emerged, working with Muggle and magical methods to provide a broad forensic service.  This two-pronged and methodical approach appealed to many Muggleborn witches and wizards, with Hermione being one of the most notable.

 

The crime scene was indeed a far cry from the blood-soaked bodies abandoned in alleyways that Harry's small team of Aurors usually had to deal with.  This time they were in a well-decorated flat that was three storeys up and had – if you looked out of the right window at the right angle – a rather pleasant view over the park that marked one end of Diagon Alley.  Harry followed Neville and Ron into the small living room and then stopped in his tracks, shocked.  At the far end of the room, there were a couple of forensic Aurors making notes and bagging evidence, and beside them was Hermione, sitting cross-legged on the floor and writing furiously.  These were fairly standard practice, but it was the subject of their endeavours that had caught Harry's eye.

 

The body of a man lay on the floor, naked and flat on his back with his eyes closed and arms by his side.  Almost every inch of skin, however, was obscured by the shimmering of thousands of wings.  Butterflies of every size and colour covered the body from head to toe in a gently vibrating blanket, two large orange butterflies on the eyes, giving a rather menacing appearance.

 

The jumbled effect of a hundred different colours was incongruously homey amidst the clearly carefully-chosen, minimalist styling of the flat, the sterility of the room shattered by the presence of the insects.  Though he was certain he'd not come across anything even remotely similar to this presentation of a body before, a vague feeling of recognition nagged at Harry's mind.

 

“Morning, Harry,” Hermione called, looking up.  “Interesting one, this, eh?”

 

“You're not kidding,” he replied, strolling over and trying to shake off the disquieting feeling that he'd seen this case before.  “Any idea on cause of death?”

 

Hermione wrinkled her nose.  “Asphyxiation, I think, though I'll have to get him back to the lab to be certain.”

 

“He was strangled?” Harry asked, peering at the corpse's throat.

 

“No.  I think it's a charm, a reverse bubble-head or something along those lines.”

 

“So we might get a magical signature?” Harry's eyes lit up hopefully.

 

“Maybe, but we'll have to wait and see.  You have to be a special kind of stupid to commit murder with your own wand, so we might not be able to narrow it down.”  Hermione shrugged.  “You never know, though, and all this—” she waved at the body “—might help with that too.”

 

“You reckon we're looking for a butterfly enthusiast, then?” Ron asked, crouched on the floor and prodding a particularly large Red Admiral.

 

“Come on, Ronald, are you really that dense?” Hermione said, rolling her eyes.  “Don't you recognise this scenario at all?”

 

“What, murdering a guy and covering him in butterflies?” Ron raised a sceptical eyebrow.  “Who does that?”

 

With Hermione's confirmation that there was a reason to recognise the scene, the penny finally dropped for Harry, and he stifled a groan.  This bizarre display of a body was indeed familiar, not because he'd seen it in person, but because he'd read it in a book.  Unfortunately, that meant they were going to have to see if the author could cast any light on the case, and Harry would rather ask for help from almost anyone else.

 

Harry tried to keep the lack of enthusiasm out of his voice, but was not entirely certain he'd succeeded.  “Malfoy, that's who.”

 

“I thought you'd left the 'blame everything on Malfoy' days behind you, Harry,” Neville said, looking rather concerned.  “Didn't you go on record at his trial saying you didn't think Malfoy had it in him to be a killer?”

 

“He doesn't think Malfoy's the killer,” Hermione stated, getting to her feet and looking unimpressed.  “Honestly, don't you two read?”

 

**:::::**

 

When Harry arrived at the function room hosting the launch of Malfoy's latest novel – the fifteenth in the _Malfoy Mysteries_ series – it was heaving with people.  Huge windows stretched down each side of the room, allowing glorious views over Muggle and Wizarding London alike.  At one end, seated at a small table with his family, Harry saw Malfoy, drinking champagne and laughing.  Occasionally someone approached him, and was rewarded with a broad smile and sometimes an autograph as well.  He looked so different to either the sneering boy or the frightened teenager of Harry's memory, that it was hard to believe he was the same person.  Twenty years or so after the end of the war, Malfoy looked a great deal younger, apparently unaffected by the weight of time passing and making Harry feel heavy and old by comparison.

 

“He's probably got a portrait hidden in his attic,” Harry muttered uncharitably, his scowl attracting confused glances from a passing couple.  He smiled weakly, then took a deep breath and headed towards Malfoy, squeezing past waiters bearing trays of drinks and people dressed in robes of every colour.

 

Harry arrived at Malfoy's table just as an elderly witch was leaving, clutching her newly-signed novel and almost poking Harry in the eye with her large and heavily decorated hat.  Malfoy glanced up at Harry's approach, then sat back in his chair, his eyes widening with surprise.

 

“Well, look who it is,” he said.  “Harry Potter, good lord.”  A smile spread across his face and he gestured vaguely towards the table.  “Won't you join us?  You remember my mother, of course, and this is my son, Scorpius.”

 

Harry did indeed remember Narcissa Malfoy, though the time since the war had wrought more changes on her than on her son.  She retained the same slim elegance, but her face had softened – whether from age or increased happiness, Harry couldn't tell.  Scorpius, he only knew of through the newspaper reports of his birth.  The more old-fashioned pureblood families had been horrified that Astoria Greengrass had been pregnant without being married, and the fact that the baby's father was Draco Malfoy – the son of the disgraced Lucius – only served to cement the scandal.  Dismissive of these prejudiced attitudes, Astoria had chosen to bring up her son in a mixed community of Muggleborn and more accepting pureblood families, as well as spending as much time with Draco as was possible.  Scorpius had apparently inherited his mother's self-assurance as well as his father's looks, and was commendably unconcerned by the media circus accompanying the success of the Malfoy Mysteries.

 

As his father waved Harry to a seat, Scorpius quickly shifted on to the vacant chair, leaving his own free so that Harry could sit down beside Malfoy.  “Hello, Auror Potter,” he said, beaming.  “I didn't know you liked my dad's books.  Isn't it weird working on crimes all day and then reading about them at home too?”  His face was a picture of interested enthusiasm, and yet also so reminiscent of his father as a schoolboy that it took Harry's breath away.

 

“I'm actually here on business, I'm afraid,” Harry managed to say, grimacing a little.  He turned back toward Malfoy, whose pleased expression had faded into something more resigned, a little more weary and decidedly more familiar.  “We've got a homicide case that you might be able to help with.  Would you mind coming back to the Ministry with me?”

 

Narcissa Malfoy leaned across the table, her sharp eyes giving the lie to her pleasant smile.  “I hope this isn't an accusation, Auror Potter.  I can assure you Draco can account for his whereabouts at all times and has certainly played no part in a murder.”

 

Malfoy put his hand on his mother's arm.  “It's alright, mother.  You and Scorpius enjoy the rest of the party while I go and, ah, help Auror Potter with his enquiries.”

 

Harry got to his feet and nodded at Mrs Malfoy.  “We're hoping Draco will be of some assistance, but that's all, for now.  It was good to meet you again.”  He smiled briefly at Scorpius, then turned for the door with Malfoy on his heels.

 

**:::::**

 

At the Ministry, Malfoy followed Harry into a small office and sat down, looking vaguely apprehensive.  “You don't seriously think I've killed someone, do you?”

 

“What?  No,” Harry replied, surprised that Malfoy would make that assumption.  It may have been a long time since the end of the war, but the memory of the Death Eater trials was still fresh in Harry's mind.  He'd spent weeks honing his statement for maximum impact in court, and it had worked – Malfoy had been one of very few Death Eaters who had avoided Azkaban.  Harry had been certain then that Malfoy didn't have it in him to kill anyone, and he was still certain now.  The expression in Malfoy's eyes as Harry had taken his wand away before Dobby had rescued him from Malfoy Manor had been one of stark relief, so vivid that Harry had never forgotten it.  If Malfoy had not killed anyone during the war, Harry was sure he wouldn't do so now.

 

Quashing his disquiet by shuffling through the case details, Harry pulled out one of Hermione's photographs of the crime-scene.  “But we have reason to believe you might be connected with this case.  What can you tell me about John Hookham?”

 

“Never heard of him.”

 

“Do you recognise this?”  Harry pushed the photo across the table, the butterflies' fluttering such a tiny movement in the picture that it almost looked like a blurry, unfocused Muggle picture rather than a magical one.

 

“Shut the front door!” exclaimed Malfoy, snatching it up immediately.  “Is this a real murder?  I've no idea who he is, but of course I recognise the scene.  It's straight out of _The Butterfly Effect_.”

 

“Not your most inspired title, that one.” Harry grinned as Malfoy continued to examine the photograph.

 

“No, probably not.”  Malfoy looked up sharply.  “You mean you know the others?  You're familiar enough with my work to make judgements on titles?”  His eyes sparkled with delight as crinkles formed at the corners, and he waved the photograph.  “So I have _two_ fans: this murderer... and you.  I never would have thought it.”

 

“You're pleased because someone's copied your murder scenario?  A man is _dead_ , Malfoy.  Show some respect.”

 

“I'm sorry he's dead, Potter, but I didn't kill him – although I'd love a copy of this picture.  Why am I here?  You surely don't think I know the killer just because the presentation of the body is a copycat of my book?”

 

Harry sighed.  “No, but you might be able to give us a lead.  Do you get any post from fans, anything along those lines?”

 

Malfoy laughed.  “I have so much fan mail I had to hire people to deal with it all.  You want a look?  Some of it is quite disturbing.”

 

“Murder-planning disturbing?”

 

“More like 'we are made for each other, Draco, I'll be at this hotel on this date' disturbing.  I swear my ex-wife sent one once.  There are a few that are about the books, though.  Would you like a look?”

 

“Everything from the last six months, yes.  That'll do for starters.”

 

**:::::**

 

When Harry went home that night, before he'd even had dinner he ran a bath, added bubbles, and sank into it up to his neck.  The hot water slowly eased the tension out of his shoulders until he was relaxed at last, eyes half-closed and mind drifting through the peculiar events of the day.  As had so often been the case while they were at Hogwarts, Malfoy got the starring role, images of blond hair and delighted smiles coming thick and fast.

 

Harry sighed, sending ripples across the water until they threatened to spill over the edge of the bathtub.  “Get out of my head, Malfoy,” he muttered, sinking lower in the water and staring at the ceiling.  Instead of focussing on something else, though, what immediately sprang into his mind was the memory of approaching Malfoy at the book launch, and the quietly appreciative expression that had stolen across Malfoy's face.

 

Malfoy's smile may have been familiar, given how often he was in the _Daily Prophet_ , either in the literature section or the gossip columns – hardly a week went by without Malfoy being photographed with a new squeeze – but the smaller version, with softer, more sparkling eyes, was a rare sight.  Remembering that smile made Harry feel warm, though it was followed by a hot spike of guilt at having brought him in to the Ministry, even though he knew he had had no other option.

 

He sighed again, levered himself out of the bath, and padded into the kitchen in his dressing gown to make a quick dinner.  The lingering sense of shame had dampened his appetite such that he looked at possible ingredients for a full ten minutes before giving up and making do with a couple of slices of toast.

 

It took a long time until he fell asleep that night, still unable to get the picture of Malfoy's smile out of his head.

 

**:::::**

 

Early the next morning, the peacefulness of the office was broken by the sound of indistinct swearing.  Before too long it was intelligible enough to have an intrigued Harry looking at the door some time before Ron came into view, most of his body obscured by a pile of boxes as he precariously heaved them into the office.

 

“You didn't fancy shrinking them, then?” Harry asked, grinning as Ron shot him a filthy look, shaking the dust out of his hair, now a deep copper rather than the bright ginger of his teenage years.

 

“Apparently his nibs sometimes gets weird spells in the post,” Ron said, raising his eyebrows, “and it's best to leave well alone unless you want weird spells exploding all over you.”

 

“What's this?  Potter wants something exploding all over him?” Malfoy swept into the office, another couple of boxes in his arms and a delighted expression creasing the corners of his eyes.  “How scandalous.”  He slid into the spare chair on the far side of Harry's desk, rested his chin in his hands and winked.

 

“What?” Harry spluttered, before Ron cut him off.

 

“Nah, Harry's way too repressed for that kind of thing.  Stiff upper lip, married to the job and all that.  No fun at all.  Ever.”

 

“Oh come on, Ron–”

 

“Is that right?” Malfoy leaned back in his chair, casting a speculative eye at Harry.  “Not the ladies' man he was at school then?”

 

Neville, coming through the door, nearly dropped the cups of tea he was carrying.  “Ladies' man?  Harry?  Are you sure you're thinking of the right guy, Draco?

 

“Well, there was Chang, and Ron's sister, and so very many rumours.  It was quite the source of entertainment in Slytherin.  I liked the one with the merman best.  Was it all just a publicity stunt, then?”

 

“No.  No ladies' man, no publicity stunt.” Harry snapped, flushing.  “We are not discussing my love life.  All of you, shut up.”  He pulled a box towards himself, grabbed a handful of letters, and started to read, studiously ignoring the warmth rising up the back of his neck and spreading across his cheeks.

 

“Fill me in later?” Malfoy's whisper carried all too easily across the room, and Harry looked up just in time to catch Ron and Neville's enthusiastic nodding before they stopped, looking a little sheepish.

 

Usually, it wasn't a problem that Harry was Ron and Neville's superior – they'd all joined at the same time, and worked their way up the ranks together.  When Harry had been promoted, they'd both been pleased for him, and in any case Ron had been Harry's right-hand-man for years.  Neville, the easygoing soul that he was, had never been particularly keen on climbing the career ladder at all costs, and was quite happy working for a man he respected.  At times like this, though, it could be singularly unhelpful, as their shared past gave them much more knowledge about their senior Auror than was ordinarily the case.

 

“Shush.  Work.”  This time Harry's stern tone had the desired effect, the office filling with just the soft sound of rustling parchment.

 

**:::::**

 

Four hours – and another two cups of tea each – later, Malfoy groaned, stretching his arms up to the ceiling and giving Harry an all-too-clear glimpse of exposed skin above his belt.  “This is painful.  I don't think I can read another graphic description of exactly what someone would do if I was tied up in _their_ cellar.  Some of it's just sick, some is way too kinky for this time in the morning, and some is both.  There has got to be a better way of sorting through this lot than just reading it all.  Isn't there something we can do to make it quicker?”

 

“Educate him, Nev,” Harry said, quickly looking away and praying that the others couldn't tell that his heart rate had accelerated as soon as the image of Malfoy tied up in a kinky cellar sprang into his mind.

 

“There are filtering spells, yes,” Neville began, “but they're really specific and don't work on pictures.  So we could get all the letters that contained the word “sun”, for instance, but it would ignore photographs and drawings.  Given that we don't have anything in particular that we're looking for, we're stuck doing it the long way round.”

 

Malfoy groaned again.  As Neville was speaking he had slowly slumped in his chair, until his head and shoulders were hanging over the back of the chair, his back and legs stretched out and completely relaxed.  “I'll just read the next one from here then, if you don't mind.”

 

He drew his wand from his pocket and waved it in the direction of the desk.  “ _Accio_ –”

 

“No, Malfoy, don't–”

 

“– _unread letter_.”

 

Malfoy turned his head to look quizzically at Harry, who had just enough time to shrug helplessly before the room filled with an almighty fluttering, and the contents of the two and a half as yet unread boxes of letters flew across the room towards Malfoy.

 

Eyes widening in horror, Malfoy flailed a little as his chair tipped over backwards with a thump and a yelp.

 

Panic laced with amusement spiked through Harry, as the letters started to settle.  “Malfoy?” he asked, leaning round the side of the desk.

 

“Ow.” Malfoy was completely obscured by a huge pile of letters, and his voice was slightly muffled.

 

“Malfoy?” Harry repeated, slipping down from his own chair to kneel beside Malfoy, paper crumpling under his knees.  “You alright?”  He brushed letters away from Malfoy, exposing his face.

 

“Oh, Potter,” said Malfoy, grinning as soon as his eyes were uncovered.  “I didn't know you cared.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes.  “If I've got to have a wannabe Auror hanging around pretending to be some sort of consulting detective, I'd rather he was all in one piece.”

 

“Even me?”

 

“What?  Of course.  Why not you?  You're not special, Malfoy,” Harry responded, his brow wrinkling with confusion.  “If you're not hurt, you can start tidying up this mess.”

 

As Harry turned back to his own chair, Ron left the office promising to bring back some lunch, Neville hot on his heels.

 

Malfoy remained absolutely still, watching Harry with a thoughtful expression.

  “No, I'm not special.  But you are.  You're the Boy Who Lived, you defeated Voldemort twice, you're a national hero, and yet you're still risking your life every day trying to help people.”

 

Harry sighed, leaning back in his chair and looking over at Malfoy.  “No-one is special, Malfoy, that's the point.  Anyone can have their life turned upside-down in a moment.  I don't like that, and I don't like that the perpetrators sometimes get away with it.  So I try to do something about it.”

 

“It's pretty noble, though, you must admit.  Even your esteemed fellow colleagues don't all have such pure motives.  Most people would agree with your sentiments, but precious few stick their neck out to prove the point.  That marks you out as different, don't you think?”

 

A doubtful sourness twisted Harry's lips for a second or two, but although he held Malfoy's gaze, he didn't say a word.

 

“Well, even if you don't think so, I do.  I'd have died a long time ago, in any one of several deeply unpleasant ways, if you and your ‘trying to do something about it' mentality hadn't been there.”  Malfoy finally dropped his eyes, sitting up and letting the mass of letters cascade over his legs.

 

“Hermione calls it my ‘saving people thing',” Harry offered.  “I think she disapproves.”

 

“She's got a way with words, that lady,” replied Malfoy, scooping handfuls of letters back into a box.  “She's wasted on all those fill-in-the-blanks forensic reports–” He stopped abruptly, sitting back on his heels and staring at a letter.

 

“What have you got?” asked Harry, sliding to the floor and peering over Malfoy's shoulder.

 

“I think I might have found a clue.  Look.”  Malfoy unfolded the parchment to its full size, and there in front of them was a perfect drawing of the pivotal scene in _The Butterfly Effect_ – and their crime scene.  Each butterfly had been drawn in exquisite detail, from the false eyes of the Peacocks to the white edging on the wings of the Red Admirals.

 

“Brilliant,” breathed Harry, beaming as Malfoy turned his head and returned the smile, his eyes dancing with excitement.  Malfoy's face was scant inches from his own, his breathing slow and steady, and his lips full and soft.  Harry couldn't take his eyes from those lips, nor prevent the hitch in his breathing as he caught a glimpse of Malfoy's tongue moistening them.

 

“Am I interrupting something?”  Ron's voice seemed incredibly loud in the small room.

 

Adrenaline flooded through Harry, leaving him light-headed and confused.  “No,” he replied, too quickly and too loudly, jolting backwards away from Malfoy and narrowly missing cracking his head on the corner of the desk.

 

At the same time, Malfoy replied with a decisive “Yes,” his eyes mischievous as they flicked from Harry to Ron and back again.

 

Ron raised his eyebrows.  “Right.  Well, whatever it is you are or aren't doing, can it wait?  Another body's been found.”  He scowled.  “Perfect sodding timing, don't they know it's lunchtime?  I didn't even have time to fetch us sandwiches before I got sent back up here.”

 

“What?  We've got a serial killer?”  Harry clambered up from the floor, grateful that Ron had interrupted with something more substantial than lunch, but his heart still hammering with thwarted– desire?  For Malfoy?  He shook his head, trying to think clearly.  “Okay.  We've also got a lead on this case – get Nev to see if he can work out who sent that letter that Malfoy's got while we go check out this new thing.”

 

“Alright,” said Ron.  “It shouldn't be too difficult to find Nev, I think he's in the Owlery again, sending another message to his new girlfriend.”  He snorted a laugh.  “He's right under the thumb, poor bastard.”

 

Malfoy, still sitting on the floor, held out the letter to Ron.  “Can I come?” he asked.  “To the crime scene?  I might be able to help.”  He turned hopeful eyes on Harry.

 

Harry looked at him, trying desperately to ignore how appealing Malfoy looked, rather dishevelled and focussed entirely on Harry.  It was a heady feeling to be the centre of such attention, and all too easy to imagine other ways in which Malfoy could have achieved such a rumpled appearance.  It was strange to think of Malfoy in this way – Harry's immediate reaction was anger at himself, swiftly tempered by the knowledge that his automatic prejudice against Malfoy was years out of date, and hardly justified in any case.  All the same, Malfoy was likely to be a liability at a crime scene – he had no training, and as evidenced by the letter-summoning, he was a little lacking in common sense as well.

 

Eventually, knowing that Robards had insisted that Malfoy be allowed to shadow the Aurors on the case, Harry gave in, and tried not to let Malfoy's elated expression go to his head.

 

“Fine.  But don't get in the way, and don't touch anything.”

 

**:::::**

 

The new crime scene was on the banks of a small brook, one of the few Thames tributaries in the capital that predominantly flowed in the Wizarding areas.  In the park at one end of Diagon Alley, the brook widened into a small pond populated by ducks, before flowing down towards the river.  About thirty feet upstream of the pond, the brook had been cordoned off by stern-looking junior Aurors, who nodded deferentially to Harry as he ducked under the tape and headed over to where Hermione was already waiting for him, knee-deep in the water with the corpse of a woman floating partly wedged in the reeds.

 

“Alright, 'Mione,” Harry greeted her.  “What does it look like this time?”

 

“Hi,” she said, standing up.  “Looks like we've got another of yours, Draco.”

 

“Really?  Which one?”  Malfoy said, trying to edge past Harry, but thwarted as Harry's arm came up as a barrier across his chest.

 

“What's the one about Charon?”

 

“ _Soul Ferry_.” Malfoy leaned over Harry's arm, peering at the corpse. “Oh, I see.”

 

“I don't,” said Harry, gritting his teeth.  “If you two don't mind letting the less well-informed among us into the secret, that'd be helpful.  Who's Sharon?”

 

“Not Sharon, Harry, Charon.” Hermione's voice dropped into the slightly scathing, slightly exasperated tone that was all too familiar from their school years.  “You know, the ferryman over the Styx?  Who takes souls to Hades?  Ancient Greeks were laid to rest with coins in their mouths to pay Charon for their passage over the river?”

 

“Oh yeah, him,” Harry muttered, aware of Malfoy watching him.  He gingerly made his way closer to the edge of the water, the ground wet and squelching under his boots, muddy water soaking into the hem of his long, thick overcoat.  “I read that book a long time ago; I don't remember all the details.”

 

“I'm assuming the plot probably doesn't matter,” said Malfoy, “what with it being all about this guy who wants to recreate ancient societies, and if we have a serial killer who's basing murders on my books, he's unlikely to have the same motives as my characters.”

 

“Yes, it's more than likely just the deaths themselves that are being used as inspiration.  So, what happened here?”

 

“In my book, the victim is laid out in a boat, with a coin in his mouth to pay the ferryman.  It's a mixture of Ancient Greek and Viking customs.”

 

“Alright.  Do we have any idea who she is?”

 

“Lynn Bryant, according to her ID,” said Ron, coming up behind Malfoy and clapping him on the shoulder.  “Aged twenty-three, works in a café, lived with her mother.  Mum is coming in to the Ministry for questioning.  No obvious link to our butterfly guy.”

 

“Damn.  Alright, next step is–”

 

“ _But_ ,” said Ron, cutting Harry off.  “It's not all bad news.  We have a name for that letter of Malfoy's, and Nev's found us another body.”

 

“Another body is not usually considered good news, Ron.”  Hermione stood up straight, frowning at Ron and managing to look fierce even while wearing waders and rubber gloves.

 

“No, but this isn't a new one.  This is one from last week – the victim's name is Alan Palmer – it's not such a distinctive crime scene as these two, but once you know what you're looking for it's obvious it's another Malfoy Mystery job.”

 

Harry nodded, starting to squelch back to dry land.  “Right, okay.  So cross-reference the three victims with the letter guy, and we'll see what comes up.  Has anyone gone to arrest the letter guy yet?”  His foot slipped in the soft ground, his balance only restored when Malfoy reached out and grabbed his flailing hand.  Malfoy's own hand was warm, long fingers wrapping around his wrist and gently squeezing before releasing him.

 

“No, but Nev's getting a team of Hit Wizards together.  They'll meet you there.”  Ron handed Harry an address scrawled on a scrap of paper, then glanced over at Malfoy.  “You both going?”

 

“Yes please.”  Malfoy was almost bouncing with excitement.  “I promise I won't get in the way.”

 

Harry sighed.  “You realise this is dangerous work, right?  Not just playing at cops and robbers?”

 

“Understood, sir,” Malfoy replied, saluting.  “If I get hurt I promise I won't blame you.”

 

Harry's retort died in his mouth as a sudden vision sprang into his mind, a vivid impression of a sixth-year Malfoy lying prone with his blood making pretty swirling patterns in puddles of water.  Harry hadn't been blamed for that, not even by Malfoy himself.  He realised his eyes were fixed on the tiny, silvery scar line visible through Malfoy's open collar, and flushed a deep red.

 

“No, okay.  Just... be careful.  Do what we tell you.”

 

**:::::**

 

The address Ron had provided was not too far from the park, in a narrow street of terraced houses that were all crammed in together.  Although still fairly close to Diagon Alley and the upmarket housing around it, this area was definitely on the other end of the scale, built to house large numbers of poorly-paid manual workers at some point in the past.  No luxuriously spacious rooms or leafy gardens, just countless plain brick houses with a scrap of bare yard behind each of them.

 

“The suspect's name is Joe Harris, and we have to assume he's armed and dangerous,” Neville's voice was calm but serious as he briefed the small squad of Aurors before they attempted the arrest.  “He's not been arrested for anything before now, so we have very little idea how it's going to go.  Stay alert, wands ready.  Let's go.”

 

They moved together to the front door, with Harry and Malfoy bringing up the rear.  When there was no reply to a polite knock, the door swiftly gave way to Neville's _Confringo_ , dust and splinters raining down on the Aurors as they swept through the hallway.  As Harry made his way inside the familiar sound of his colleagues confirming the security of each room echoed through the house, the adrenaline rush of the forced entry diminishing with each one.  The efficient and methodical team of Hit Wizards double-checked every room, and when the whole house was deemed both safe and empty, Harry waved Malfoy inside.

 

 

“Looks like there's no-one here,” Harry said, his shoulders relaxing as Malfoy peered around the doorway.  “It's going to be a pain in the arse finding the guy now, though.”

 

“Hey, Draco,” called Neville, leaning over the banisters.  “You've got to see the bedroom.”

 

Intrigued, Malfoy hurried up the stairs with Harry hot on his heels, turning into the main bedroom to be greeted by hundreds of newspaper and magazine clippings stuck to the walls.  There were pictures of Malfoy at book signings, Malfoy attending fan conventions, reviews and book covers from every edition of every single Malfoy Mystery, and a vast collection of fan art in the same style as that from the letter.

 

“Wow,” breathed Malfoy, turning in a circle so he could take in the full effect.  “It's like a shrine.”

 

“A creepy shrine,” commented Ron.  “Really, really creepy.  Looks like this guy has a Malfoy obsession.”  He glanced over at Harry.  “Maybe we can get some insight from someone else who's got a similar–”

 

“Shut up, Ron,” Harry snapped, partly irritated and partly distracted by a muffled thumping noise coming from the ground floor.

 

“Come on, Harry–”

 

“I mean it, shut up.”

 

This time the thumping was audible enough for all of them to hear it, and immediately the Aurors were all business.  Ron waved at Malfoy to stay put, then followed Harry and Neville back down the stairs, wands out.

 

Malfoy hesitated, then crept down behind them, crouching halfway down the stairs and peering through the banisters as Neville wrenched open the small door to the cupboard under the stairs, and Harry and Ron dragged the man hidden inside into the open.

 

“Joe Harris, you are under arrest for the murder of John Hookham,” stated Harry, fastening handcuffs around the man's wrists.  “You do not have to say anything.  However, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.  Anything you do say may be given in evidence.  I'm Auror Potter, ID number 41319.”

 

“Draco,” called Neville, “stop hiding on the stairs and come on.”

 

Harry pulled a standard-issue portkey from his pocket and strapped one end to his own wrist, the other to the suspect's.  The portkeys had arisen as part of the reformation of the Auror department – previously, too many suspects had been splinched, or been dangerous liabilities on broomsticks.  So  a belt-like webbing portkey had been developed, that could be strapped to up to two suspects per Auror.  It was not the most pleasant way to travel, but it was undeniably safer for both Aurors and suspects.

 

Harry looked over at Malfoy.  “You want to Apparate back, or come with me?”

 

Malfoy didn't answer, instead grasping the portkey a couple of inches from Harry's hand.  “Alright then,” muttered Harry, and tapped the portkey with his wand.

 

The journey back to the Ministry was an uncomfortable one.  As soon as the portkey activated, Malfoy was jolted forwards, his body warm and firm against Harry's from shoulder to hip.  It was almost automatic, the way Harry reached out to steady them both by wrapping his free arm around Malfoy's waist, fingers settling over a jutting hip bone as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

 

Landing back in the processing room of the Auror department was something of a shock, with the bright lights, and the bustle of people filling in paperwork and logging arrivals and departures of arrestees.  Harry abruptly pulled away from Malfoy, disorientation making him feel dizzy and his cheeks flushing with heat.  He barely dared look at Malfoy, but when he did, was greeted by a rather soft and gentle smile, with none of the arrogance that his mental image of Malfoy – still influenced by their schooldays – insisted ought to be there.

 

Malfoy cleared his throat.  “What next, Auror Potter?”  His voice rumbled through Harry's skull, the tone as warm as the remembered heat of Malfoy's body pressed against his own.

 

“Paperwork,” stammered Harry.  “We have to book this guy in.  Over there.  Where the people with the forms are.”

 

“Alright,” murmured Malfoy.  “Lead on.”

 

 

When they had finally finished all the required admin for admitting Harris into custody – and Harry was feeling like himself once more – Harry and Malfoy retreated back to the office to find Ron and Neville scowling at the board covered in the most pertinent case details.

 

“What's up?” asked Harry.  “Shouldn't you be pleased we got the guy?”

 

“That's just it,” said Neville.  “It seems a bit too easy.”

 

“Exactly,” chimed in Ron, munching on a banana disconsolately.  “Harris looks like the guy – we got that letter with the picture of the Hookham crime scene, and the creepy shrine to Malfoy in his house, and he clearly has mental health issues.  But aside from the Malfoy Mysteries angle, there's not much to connect him to Bryant – the body from this morning, or Palmer – the guy from last week.”

  
“So what have we got to connect them all?”  Malfoy peered over Neville's shoulder.  “It says here that Hookham's fiancée was Harris's counsellor.  So maybe Harris got jealous, wanted her to himself, so he killed her fiancé?”

 

“Maybe,” replied Neville. “But why kill the other two – Palmer first, then Hookham, then Bryant?  The other victims have had no contact with Harris other than as customers in the jeweller's where he worked.”

 

“It's not your usual killing spree then,” mused Harry. “No-one murders a stranger for no reason, and then someone they know, and then goes back to a no-reason killing of a stranger.  It's hardly an escalation.”

 

“We're not going to get anywhere now, though.  Let's just go home and come back to it fresh in the morning.”  Ron stood up, throwing the banana skin in the bin and stretching his arms above his head.  “Hermione's autopsy results will be ready by then, maybe they'll give us something new to look at.”

 

“Alright.  See you in the morning.”  Harry sat back down behind his desk, pulling the case notes toward himself as the three other men headed for the door.  “I'm going to see if I can get anywhere for a bit longer first.”

 

**:::::**

 

Harry was still at his desk two hours later, staring at the drawing that Harris had sent to Malfoy.  He leafed through the case notes to compare the drawing to the crime-scene photographs of Hookham's murder, then frowned at their absence.  The pictures weren't in the file, nor were they on Ron's or Neville's desks.

 

“Son of a bitch,” muttered Harry, standing up and pulling on his brown duffle coat before striding out of the office.

 

Ten minutes later, Harry, accompanied by a couple of junior Aurors, arrived at Malfoy's flat, smiled and nodded as Narcissa Malfoy let them in, and burst into the study where Malfoy was peering at the missing photographs.  “Draco Malfoy, you are under arrest for theft of and tampering with evidence.”

 

Malfoy visibly jumped at Harry's irritated tone, then turned round with a disarming smile.  “Oh, come on, Potter, I was going to bring them back.”

 

“Shut up.”  Harry waved at the junior Aurors.  “Cuff him, and take him in.”

 

“Bondage, eh?” The smile was still there even as Malfoy was pushed forward against the desk and his hands cuffed behind his back.  “I didn't know that was your sort of thing.”  The smile deepened into something decidedly more wicked as he was hauled past Harry, pausing in the doorway just long enough to lean close and whisper.  “My safeword is 'apples'.”

 

“It bloody well would be,” muttered Harry, under his breath. “Trust you to pick temptation for a safeword.”  A startlingly clear image of Malfoy bound spreadeagled to a bed with that lewd smile still on his face came into Harry's mind, making him squirm in discomfort.

 

As the portkey was strapped to Malfoy's wrist, the levity seemed to leave him.  “Look at those pictures, Potter.  The butterflies are wrong, and the coins in the Bryant murder are wrong too.”

 

Harry frowned as the portkey carried the other men away, and looked down at the pictures.  The close-up of Hookham's face had a note stuck to it, written in Malfoy's clear hand.  “Not Gatekeepers,” Harry read, his brow wrinkling in confusion.

 

“No, they're not,” agreed Scorpius, walking into the room and leaning over Harry's arm to look at the photograph.

 

“Excuse me?” said Harry, taken aback by the new arrival.  He'd almost forgotten that he was still standing in Malfoy's house, surrounded by Malfoy's things and Malfoy's family.

 

“They're not Gatekeeper butterflies, on your dead person.”  Scorpius raised an eyebrow, as if waiting for Harry to make a connection.  Harry, however, was struck once again by the family resemblance between Scorpius and his father – was this what Malfoy might have looked like, if it hadn't been for Voldemort?  Scorpius had the same thin features, the same white-blond hair, and the same easily graceful movement, but there was no sign of the wary spitefulness that his father had cloaked himself in as a teenager.

 

Harry shook his head, trying to recall himself to the present.  “I'm sorry, what do you mean?”

 

“Look at the butterflies on his eyes,” Scorpius said, tapping the photograph.  “In my dad's book, the ones on the eyes were Gatekeepers: they're a browny-orange sort of colour, with a spot on each forewing.  And these ones–”

 

“These ones aren't the same,” breathed Harry, staring at the picture of the butterflies that were a vivid orange, with a complete absence of markings on the wings.  “Malfoy said something about the coins being wrong in the other one, do you have any idea what that's about?”

 

“What book was that from?” asked Scorpius, heading for the bookcase behind Harry.

 

“Something about Sharon?  Souls travelling across a river?”

 

“Charon.  Not Sharon.”  Scorpius handed Harry a book.  “It'll be in here somewhere.”

 

“Thanks,” said Harry, sinking into a comfortable leather armchair, and flicking through the pages.

 

“That's alright.”  Scorpius hesitated, clearly uncomfortable.  “Why'd you call him Malfoy?  My dad, I mean?”

 

Harry looked at him, baffled.  “It's his name?”

 

“Well, yeah, but I thought people stopped using surnames once they knew someone.”

 

“He calls me Potter,” Harry pointed out.

 

“Only when you can hear him.”  Scorpius almost ran out of the room, leaving Harry both bewildered and with his heart racing.

 

**:::::**

 

The following morning, Harry was already seated at his desk, reading Hermione's report on the Bryant case, when Neville arrived, an impatient-looking owl perched on his shoulder.

 

“Morning, Harry,” Neville said, fishing in his own desk drawer for a few Owl Treats.  “Any breakthroughs?”

 

“Yes.”  Harry looked up, and gestured vaguely at the pile of notes in front of him.  “We arrested the wrong guy.  We're back to square one.”

 

“What?  How come?”  Neville retrieved his letter from the owl, then perched on the end of the desk, trying to read Harry's scrawled handwriting.

 

“The butterflies on Hookham's eyes aren't the same species as the ones in Malfoy's book.  And the coin in Bryant's mouth is a Sickle – in the book, it's a Muggle coin, a fifty-pence piece.”

 

“These are minor details, though, surely?” said Neville, unfolding his own letter.  “We have a picture that Harris drew of the exact same scene.”

 

“Yes, but it's a picture of the fictional crime scene, not the real one.  I've double-checked all those sodding butterflies – every single one in the drawing matches the ones mentioned in the book, and every single one is an accurate representation of the species of butterfly.  Add to that, the fact that Harris works in a jeweller's – his main role is mending watches and clocks.  Attention to detail is basically what he does for a living.  There's no way he would scrimp on the details with an actual murder.  No way.”  Harry paused to let the information sink in.  “And in case that didn't convince you, Hermione's forensic report on Hookham states that there is no magical signature match between Hookham and Harris – Harris's wand was not used.  There's no significant match in the charm-casting style between the trace effects at the scene and the observed tests that St Mungo's have done on Harris in the past, either.”

 

“Dammit.  So we start looking again.”

 

“Looking for what?”

 

Harry looked round, startled, to be greeted by the sight of an immaculately-dressed Malfoy leaning insouciantly against Neville's desk.  “Malfoy?  I thought I had you down in the cells.”

 

“I think I'd remember if you had.”  Malfoy grinned at Harry's discomfort, then relented.  “My mother bailed me out last night.”

 

Blushing furiously, embarrassment and intrigue flooding through him, Harry managed to stammer a reply.  “Oh.  Well, anyway, you were right.  We got the wrong guy.”

 

“Harry?” Ron pushed his way into the room, waving a sheet of paper.  “Morning Nev, morning Draco.  I've got the contact details for Hookham's fiancée's family here.  The fiancée is Angela Mullins, along with her siblings Caroline and Tony, and their parents.  You want to crack on with interviewing them?”

 

“Why the fiancée's family?  Why not Hookham's own family?”  Malfoy looked puzzled.

 

“Because his family emigrated to New Zealand several years ago, and haven't been back since, according to the international portkey records.”

 

“You take the fiancée and the parents, guys.  Malfoy and I'll go and see the siblings.  Let me know what you find out.”

 

**:::::**

 

“Wow,” said Malfoy, as they walked through the revolving glass doors of a large building, into a foyer lit by delicate glass chandeliers and dotted with intricate sculptures.  “This is a nice place.”

 

In the exquisite surroundings, Harry couldn't help but think Malfoy looked absolutely at home.  Whereas Harry had always felt awkward in similar environs, Malfoy seemed to have an innate elegance that made him seem as if he belonged in beautiful spaces, which almost took Harry's breath away.

 

“Well, you'd hope so, given that the Mullins family business is an architect's firm.  Let's go see the sister first.”

 

Harry introduced himself at the front desk, then followed the receptionist as he led the way up the stairs and into a spacious office.

 

“Auror Potter to see you, Ms Mullins,” said the receptionist, before hurriedly retreating back down the stairs.

 

Caroline Mullins was a slender, stern looking woman, with deep frown lines etched into her face.  She shook Harry's hand rather perfunctorily, and waved him towards a chair.  “How can I help you, Auror?”

 

“We're investigating the death of John Hookham.  Can you tell us anything about his relationship with your sister?”

 

“They adored each other.  I never understood the attraction, to be honest, but she's devastated.”

 

“What was it about the relationship that you didn't understand?” Malfoy's tone was puzzled, his brow wrinkled.  “Were you not simply happy for your sister?”

 

Harry shot Malfoy a quelling glance, hoping he'd remember that Harry was the Auror here, and back off from the questioning, even if he was asking similar questions to the ones Harry was wondering about.

 

“I was glad she was happy, we all were.  But John...  He wasn't really right for Angela.  Or the business.”  Caroline pursed her lips, eyebrows drawing together.

 

“He was involved in the business?”  Harry managed to cut Malfoy off before he asked his own question, again giving him a subduing look.

 

“Yes, Angela wanted to involve him as much as possible.  But you must realise, we create rather specialist designs, for unusual requests.  We work magic into our buildings, and we do it subtly and with an understated elegance.  John's designs were too simple, or too obvious, or too unrefined.  We depend on our reputation to generate work, and that reputation was being compromised.  I'm sorry for Angela, of course I am, but I have to admit to feeling some relief that I won't need to deal with any more disgruntled clients due to his poor design.”  As Caroline spoke, Harry was intrigued by the way her shoulders tensed, and the hint of disapproval in her eyes deepened.  She clearly disliked Hookham, but was that dislike intense enough for her to commit murder?

 

“The whole family are involved in the business?” Malfoy asked, apparently oblivious to Harry's displeasure at his questioning.

 

“Yes, my parents started it together, but now my brother and I do most of the work.  Angela isn't so involved, but she still has an interest.”

 

“Your brother – Tony, is it?”  Caroline Mullins nodded.  “He has the greatest share in the business now, then, or are your parents still the primary shareholders?”

 

“It's mainly Tony.  I have a good share, but he has more responsibility, so he has more of a stake.  I don't envy the level of stress he gets when things aren't going well.”

 

“Okay, Ms Mullins, thank you very much, you've been most helpful.”  As Harry stood up and shook hands once more, he was aware of Malfoy almost vibrating with excitement beside him, the boyish enthusiasm rather charming, though possibly somewhat inappropriate, given that they were investigating a murder.  They left the office, and as soon as the door closed behind them, Malfoy was waving his hands about and bouncing alongside Harry.

 

“Did you hear that?  The brother has a lot to lose, and the dead guy was making him lose it!  It's _so_ him, it has to be.  Let's go arrest him.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes, though he couldn't quite suppress a smile.  “We can't arrest him, we have no evidence.  We have to have something a bit more concrete before we can arrest people.”

 

Malfoy's face fell.  “Oh.  Well, can't we go get some evidence?”

 

In answer, Harry stopped outside another door, this one with a nameplate on the door reading 'Anthony Mullins', and grinned as he turned the handle, enjoying Malfoy's unfamiliarity with Auror work in practice rather than the more maverick style of the private investigators in his novels.  “Watch and learn, grasshopper.”

 

“Mr Mullins?  I'm Auror Potter, I think the receptionist told you I was coming?”

 

“He did indeed, please have a seat.  And call me Tony.”  Tony Mullins was a broad man and all smiles, the absolute antithesis to his sister.  “How can I help you?”

 

“Can you tell me where you were the night John Hookham died?”  Harry could feel Malfoy staring at him, the surprise at the direct question palpable.

 

The smile vanished from Tony's face.  “I was out of the country, working.  I'm afraid I wasn't anywhere near London for any of the three murders, so I'm sorry to have wasted your time.”

 

“Ah, I see.  Do you have any records of your travel?”  Harry's voice was calm, the friendly smile on his face visibly disarming Tony's sudden aggression.

 

“Er, yes, yes I do.  I have my portkey passport, that has the dates and times on it.”  Tony fished around in his briefcase, then pulled out the passport with a triumphant air.  Sure enough, when Harry checked the relevant dates, Tony had been in France.

 

“Thank you, Mr Mullins, you've been very helpful.”

 

Malfoy trailed after Harry out of the office, down the stairs, and on to the street, looking a great deal less enthusiastic than he had after the interview with Caroline Mullins.  “I could have sworn it was him,” he said, kicking at the floor.  “I was so sure.”

 

Harry glanced at him.  “Oh come on, Malfoy, really?”  Harry nearly laughed at Malfoy's affronted gaze.  “Of course it was him.  Who has an alibi for three murders – when we only asked about one – without even double-checking the dates on which they were committed?”

 

“Brilliant,” breathed Malfoy.  “But he has his passport all rubber-stamped, so how did he manage that?”

 

“He has _a_ passport stating he was out of the country.  Maybe he has another one.  And that combined with what the sister said is enough for us to get a warrant to search his house.  All we need to do is push a little more and we'll have him.”

 

Back at the Ministry, Robards was sceptical.  “He has a passport saying he was nowhere near the crime scene – nowhere near _any_ of the crime scenes.  What exactly do you hope to gain by searching his house?”

 

Harry gritted his teeth, then took a deep breath.  If he couldn't persuade Robards to grant the warrant, the case was effectively over – he was so close to the truth he could almost smell it. 

“Hookham was bringing down the Mullins business – Tony Mullins had a lot to lose if the business went under.  We think he framed Harris – Angela Mullins was his counsellor, so it's entirely possible that Tony read her patient notes until he found someone who sounded like a murderer.  Harris's obsession with Malfoy's crime fiction and the artwork he'd created was the perfect cover.  The Palmer and Bryant murders were done to make the whole thing look like a serial killing rather than a simply motivated murder.  So, sir, it would be very handy if we could search Tony Mullins' house to see if there is any evidence.”

 

“Alright, fine, you can have the warrant.  But god help you if you're wrong, Harry.”

 

**:::::**

 

Tony Mullins' house was as well-maintained as his business premises, with a manicured garden and pristine windows.  Outside the house, Harry, Malfoy, Ron and Neville were clustered together, trying to keep out of the rain by huddling under a spindly young cherry tree.

 

Harry pulled his raincoat a little closer round his neck.  “Malfoy, you stay out here.  I know it's raining, but we think this guy's a murderer, so we'll all be safer if you don't come in.”

 

“But–”

 

“No buts.  Stay out here.”  Harry looked up into Malfoy's downhearted expression.  “Please.”

 

A disconsolate nod was all the reply he got, before Malfoy trudged away into the street.

 

Ron elbowed Harry in the ribs, bringing him back to the present.  “Don't worry about him, he'll be fine.  He knows he's not really an Auror.  He won't hold it against you.”

 

“I'm not worrying about anything,” Harry retorted.  “It's only Malfoy.”

 

“Yeah.  And you're not happier because he's around, and you weren't obsessed with him in sixth year, either.”

 

“Don't kid yourself, Harry,” Neville chimed in.  “You clearly get on, you're allowed to worry.  You'd worry about me and Ron if we were in the same position.”

 

Harry glared at them both.  “Let's just go in and search this place, shall we?”

 

Almost as soon as they'd set foot in the house, there was chaos.  Tony Mullins was upstairs, sawing his own wand into pieces, the remains of a portkey passport by his feet.  Harry cast a quick stasis charm, hoping that it would hold the wand together long enough for Hermione to run the magical signature identification tests.  The spell caught the attention of Tony, who immediately turned and tried to run.  Fortunately, the only escape route was through the house, and Ron was blocking his way at the top of the stairs.  Harry, at the other side of the room and too far away to do anything but look on in horror, nevertheless found a tiny, grateful part of his mind whispering “at least Malfoy is safe because he isn't here”.  He watched helplessly as Ron wrestled with the larger man, both of them teetering on the top step for a heart-stopping moment before Neville yanked Tony back, unbalancing him long enough for Ron to fasten the handcuffs.

 

Hermione came up the stairs as Ron was manhandling Tony Mullins out none too gently, Malfoy hot on her heels.  “So, what have you got for me?”

 

“Evidence,” said Harry, happily.  “Glorious, conclusive evidence.  Probably.  All I need is for you to prove that this wand is the same one that left traces at the Hookham crime scene, and – if you can – put this passport back together.  We probably have enough to make a case without them, but unless we get a confession this is the only cold, hard evidence we have.”

 

As Hermione set to work, Harry turned to Malfoy.  “So, I guess this is it.  Thanks for your help.”

 

Malfoy coughed, a slight flush staining his cheeks.  “It may not be it.  I asked if I could stay on and shadow you again – it's great background research for my writing – and Robards said yes.  I thought he'd have told you by now.”

 

Harry reeled back, his heart hammering.  “No, he hadn't,” he murmured, trying to bring himself back under control.  He took a deep breath, steadied his mind, and tried to make sense of the news.

 

“It's okay, isn't it?” Malfoy leaned forward, reaching out and then clearly thinking better of it, aborting the movement with his hand hanging awkwardly between them.  “I thought we were getting along alright?”

 

The sight of Malfoy looking uncertain was strangely calming.  He so rarely appeared anything other than self-assured, that to see him even slightly nervous was reminiscent of the schoolboy he had once been, and that Harry remembered so clearly.

 

“Yeah, we've been getting along alright,” Harry conceded, managing a small smile.  “But do as you're told, or I'll have you in the cells again.”

 

Malfoy chuckled, the twinkle in his eyes returning.  “You haven't had me in the cells once, as I recall.  Shame, really.  It would have been great.”

 

Harry laughed, relieved that the tension had been broken.  “You have no idea.”  He winked, paused just long enough to see the delighted shock on Malfoy's face, before walking back inside to help close the case.  Maybe working with Malfoy would turn out alright after all.

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